


buried for a night like this

by Anonymous



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, THESE ARE A FEW OF MY FAVORITE THINGS, holiday fluff and holiday exchanges, spiced wine and memories, winter winds and the first snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 14:51:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17143790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Even darkness brings little pleasures,his father had told him once, a long, long time ago as they sat near the fireplace in Curufinwe’s rooms, the winter wind whistling through the stony halls of Nargothrond.





	buried for a night like this

Somewhere, behind the ombré clouds painting the sky in greys and white, night was falling. 

Tyelperinquar scrunches up his nose, taking a long drink of wine and he leans his elbows on the windowsill. He could shape metals into pretty things and left wordsmithing to those with more skill. But the sky is lovely, the cold wind sweeping gently past him, rustling then papers strewn across his desk, lifting them with curious little fingers. The sun was setting, its light all but swallowed by the coming snow. It would be a long night, the longest of the year.

He can't remember the last time he had allowed himself the time to enjoy it.  _ Even darkness brings little pleasures,  _ his father had told him once, a long, long time ago as they sat near the fireplace in Curufinwe’s rooms, the winter wind whistling through the stony halls of Nargothrond. 

Tyelpe blinks past the prickling at the corners of his eyes, wondering for a frightful moment if he might one day forget the sound of his own father’s voice. It was not something he wanted to consider, not tonight — not ever, really, but certainly not tonight. 

There is a half-knock, a quick rap at the door, hardly a warning before the creak of cold hinge and wood, before Annatar sweeps into his room like morning sunlight through the slats of window shutters.

_ Stop it, that’s terribly purple of you Tyelpe. _ He sets his glass down and cannot help the smile on his face, the outstretch of his hand and Annatar regards him carefully, a whirl of dark eyebrow and flash of golden eyes. A hint of an answering smile, and the room seems all the warmer for it.

“Drinking already I see? Have your machinations given you such trouble?”

“No, it is rather that I expected you sooner.” Tyelpe says, almost laughs. 

“So you thought to get into the wine early to summon me.” Annatar’s hands go to his hips as if to pose, “well, here I am.”

“Then it worked.” Tyelpe does laugh now, and there’s a bit of a blush high on his cheeks. “But no, I have something much nicer than this that I would like to share with you. I’ve been steeping it for days now, it’s a recipe my father used to love,” he falters a moment, and this is somehow harder than he expected it to be. “As do I, though I have never tried to recreate it myself.” He frowns, turns to eye the bottle sitting on the fireplace mantle. “I do hope I have got it right.”

“Did he not teach it to you? I would have thought Curufinwe to be diligent in all things he passed down to his only son.” Annatar asks, following his gaze with a less critical eye.

“He told me once,” Tyelpe says, softly. “At the time I did not pay it as much attention as I now wish I had.”  _ I thought I would have more time.  _ He forces that thought away, not tonight.

“Well, you can hardly ask him now.”

It takes the air straight out of his lungs in a rush, like a blow to the chest and Tyelpe nearly folds in on himself, nearly takes a step back but this is Annatar, a Maiar. He does not understand, possibly could not understand how abrasive, how terrible it is to hear it said aloud. 

The silence hangs between them heavy, punctuated only by the sounds of the fire crackling, the wind picking up outside. 

“It looks like snow.” Annatar says, oblivious. 

“Yes. I’ve watched the clouds rolling in over the horizon most of the day.”

“What little day there was.” Annatar smiles at him, a gentle thing, and it softens the hurt for a moment. Those eyes look him over quickly, taking him in and his expression falls. “You are upset.”

“It is silly.”

“Tell me.”

Tyelpe takes a deep, almost shuddering breath and turns his attention to the fire. There’s an irony there — or a symbolism, perhaps — that is not lost on him but he cannot yet put his finger on. “I do miss him, my father. There are times I almost regret not going with him, though I know it would have done either of us little good. Perhaps I could have asked him more, learned more about him so that I would have something more to remember on nights like this. It is ridiculous, but I feel as though for all my life I hardly knew him, or maybe I simply did not understand him. When winter comes I think it was his favorite time of year, though I do not know why, or even if I am right. Perhaps he preferred summer, it would make more sense, would it not?” He shakes his head, closes his eyes and wills away more tears. “I am sorry, I do not mean to — to, ah.” He does not finish his thought, but when he looks up he thinks that perhaps, in some way, Annatar knows. That he understands.

This time, when the silence settles it is a comfortable thing, something that is not waiting anxious to be broken. 

This he enjoys, this he loves. This quiet between them when they do not need words. Outside the wind is a whisper of sound and when Tyelpe looks to the window again, he can see the glitter of snow falling against the dark.

“Shall we try that wine of yours, then?”

Tyelpe grins, ducks his head a little and there’s that blush again, warming his face and, in a way, his heart. 

Ah, his heart. Now there’s a tricky thing. It hums along inside his chest, flutters against his ribs and brings a bit of a tremble to his hands as he reaches for the bottle, pleasantly warm from the fire against his fingertips. He can feel a bark of a laugh that starts somewhere between his ribs and presses against his teeth as he tugs the cork free and the smell of cinnamon and cloves rises gently from the bottle. There are two glasses on the mantle and he fills them, tries not to think about how much his hands are shaking now, the dark red wine sloshing against the sides of the glasses and he can feel Annatar’s eyes on him, gentle for once. Always such intense things, golden bright and catching every little detail, every little thing and yet tonight he is all nerves all the same. 

He reaches for one of the two and warm fingers curl around his own, the press of palm against the back of his hand and he cannot breathe again but he thinks he would rather never breathe again than to lose this moment, this careful, gentle contact. There’s something in the air, swirling in like snowflakes through the open window and he can feel it electric against his skin. A spark, but maybe it’s just him, maybe it is wishful thinking, maybe it is the wine hitting him harder than he thought it would. Maybe, a thousand maybes but when his eyes meet Annatar’s he thinks he might see an echo of that spark there, a flame, a heat between them. The touch lingers and he thinks maybe he should pull away, maybe he should stay, maybe, maybe, maybe.

Annatar makes the decision for him, clinks his glass against his own and when did he let go, when did he raise his own glass, when did he press it against his lips. Annatar takes a drinks, eyes flutter closed and there’s a twitch of lips, a sigh, and he can smell winter night, taste fire on his tongue.

_ It’s perfect. _

“It’s lovely,” Annatar says quietly, almost surprised, takes a deeper drink and there’s a heady thought that swims through Tyelpe that wonders what the wine would taste like on his lips. “Thank you for sharing this with me.”

There is a weight to it, such a simple statement and yet it is not lost on Tyelpe.  _ Thank you for sharing this,  _ and he does mean not only mean the wine. It brings a new flush to his face, and he laughs, loud and deep and giddy. Perhaps the wine is stronger than he thought but there is an answering flash of teeth, and Annatar is smiling, too wide and too sharp but he does not care. 

“I could not imagine spending the longest night of the year with anyone else.” Tyelpe says, throws caution to the cold wind and clinks their glasses together again. 

There is a pause, a hesitation, and Tyelpe would be lying if he said he did not feel a flash of hurt. Annatar is quiet for a moment, his gaze on the fire and Tyelpe takes another long drink to steady his nerves, tries not to let the disappointment show.

“Nor I.” It is barely a whisper, and Tyelpe thinks he might have imagined it over the pounding of his heart in his chest. He wants to reach for him, to touch the back of his hands, his face, anywhere, everywhere, but he contents himself with this, this quiet admission, these two words, so intimate and honest, for Annatar has never been one for pleasantries or courteous lies, not as long as he has known him. 

It is enough, for now. It is more than enough.

 


End file.
